


Chronicles of Mr. Black --- Winter Reluctance

by Gibbsgalsa



Series: The Chronicles Of Mr. Black [4]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 04:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12498292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gibbsgalsa/pseuds/Gibbsgalsa
Summary: FOYLE'S WAR: CHRONICLES OF MR. BLACKNovember '42 - February '43





	1. Chapter 1

FOYLE'S WAR: CHRONICLES OF MR. BLACK

WINTER RELUCTANCE

CHAPTER I

NOVEMBER 30TH.

It was nearly eleven years. The anniversary of her death would be here in a mere three months. It felt like a lifetime ago.

DCS Foyle had reluctantly decided to revive a long lost friend tomorrow. His persona of Mr. Black would make one last appearance. It had been a good idea of Sergeant Milner for him to be the one to go undercover tomorrow. Besides there really wasn't anyone else. Privately, Paul Milner freely admitted that he had not the requisite abilities for undercover work. Foyle agreed.

“It’s not the leg, Sir,” Paul had started, but Foyle cut him off.

“Of course not, it is the deception… commmpletely understandable,” Christopher began, blinking softly not to give anything way to the younger man. For Christopher Foyle knew only too well what type of behaviour was required for entrapment.

He knew Mr. Black’s cover story inside and out. It probably wouldn't need much of Mr. Black’s back story to capture Mr. Tremayne tomorrow, but Foyle thought it wise to refresh himself regarding the facts of Charles Black, such as they were.

 

DCS Foyle ascended the stairs to his bedroom. Christopher pulled out the old rectangular chest from the upper back shelf of his closet, reluctantly. He had never liked going undercover, since first assigned in 1927. His then boss DCS Randall had lent him to Scotland Yards. His success propelled him to remain Mr. Black until February of 1931.

Foyle moved the dusty chest to the bed and took a deep sigh. He supposed his success as Mr. Black and the entrapment of some very nefarious criminals helped him to advance to DCS when Randall had been killed in an automobile accident in 1934. He remembered thinking Rosalind would have been happy and silently proud of him for the promotion. He had been the youngest DS ever to ascend to DCS at the very young age of 35.

Foyle’s nose twitched with the strong scent of mothballs when opening the case. He remembered packing all the files and some of his clothing that Scotland Yards had provided. At the very top though was one of Rosalind's dress, which he had placed in the chest after she died. He laced the dark, blue silk between one of his hands. He blinked and placed her gown on the bed beside him. The memories involved with Rosalind’s dress made him bite his lip and he quickly moved his eyes back to the chest. He had to intentionally bury those memories as he felt the pressure of unhealing pain in his chest from the loss of his beloved wife and dearest friend. He removed his suit and shoes and delved into the paper work in the back.

The top file was labeled 1931. He placed that one beside his shoes and fished out the other four files representing the previous years.

Opening the 1927 file, the first item was the dossier that Scotland Yards had given him for his undercover name and background. Christopher smiled at all the items crossed out, and other fields he had changed. Scotland Yards had his name as Gerald John Black. Christopher remembered crossing it out and writing Charles Hugh.

During the war, he had practically been inseparable from Charles, Rosalind’s brother. He was fairly certain he could answer to the name Charles with ease. The middle name, Hugh, was easy enough to remember, as it was Reid's first name. Christopher smiled at how annoyed Scotland Yards had been with all the changes he insisted upon.

He ruthlessly insisted on Mr. Black’s overseas connections and insisting on the generic job description of importer/exporter. This would explain his absence for long periods of time. Foyle would not be undercover more than three weeks at a time. At first, his superiors tried insisting, Foyle was unbudging and they finally saw it his way. His limited availability actually proved to be incredibly useful for the London agency as it turned out.

His convincing Rosalind was another issue completely. No matter though, Christopher implored a different set of arguments to his wife.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any errors. I do not own Foyle's War and do not make money from this. See my profile for my character's ages and timeline. This story is and will remain G rating. Please note all stories will not be G rated.

Foyle tapped his foot quietly against the curb. Sgt. Milner had not put in an appearance as of yet, so Foyle being Foyle remained in place across the street from Mr Tremayne’s place of business. Patiently, he paused looking down at his shoes and waited for the sign from down the road that Sgt. Milner had arrived. He was not so very late, but Christopher wanted this business completed in short order. The paperwork stacking up at the office was immeasurable, and he would not be against an early end to the day.

Foyle knew not to be very obvious, and he mentally kept his face neutral to seem in thought. In fact, Christopher’s thoughts had wandered to the first occasion of breaking the news to Rosalind that he would be away on police business in London for three weeks. Christopher came into the house late and stood just inside the kitchen doorway. He knew she was not going to like this new assignment nor the likelihood of it continuing for some time. He mutely sighed before making his presence known.

“Hello,” Rosalind turned to smile at him, and he smiled back. Christopher made his way over to embrace her, “Busy day?”

“Hello,” Rosalind kissed him, “Not very busy. Cottage pie for dinner. Of course, there was the Jumble sale in the morning. Andrew was not feeling well, so I sent him off to bath and bed three hours ago.”

“Anything serious?” Christopher asked concerned, “I can go check on him?”

Rosalind smiled at him and gave him another kiss, “It is just the sniffles, but yes I have not gone in for the past hour. Do go and see him.”

She went to pull away, but Christopher secured her back to him and spent a few moments returning her kiss. Finally letting her go, he smirked at her, “I’lll jjust go….Won’t be long.”

Ascending the steps, Christopher peeked in at his son, who rolled over and sleepily greeted him, “Dad.”

“Andrew, how’d you feel?” Christopher kept the door open and went to sit on the bed then placed a cool palm on his son’s forehead.

“Ok, really, just sleepy,” Andrew assured him then grinned at him, “Mom’s cottage pie was good.”

“Ah good you ate pie,” Foyle smiled back and firmly stated, “By the way, all your mother’s cooking is good.” 

“Yeah mostly,” Andrew agreed. 

Foyle could see that his son had no fever and took the top of his blankets and tucked him back in, “Andrew, I have to go away for a few weeks.”

Andrew slipped a hand to his head to prop himself up, “Police work?”

“Yes,” Foyle paused patting the boy on the shoulder, “Hmmm... Couple of things, son. Know you are not well right now, bbbut as you feel better….help around the house... make sure you pick up your toys. Do what your mother says. All right?”

“Yes, all ...right,” Andrew assured him, and Christopher ran his hand over his hair.

“Ffine. Ggood. Sleep well,” Christopher got up, ‘Goodnight, I will see you when I return.’

Christopher took one last look at his son and left the oak door slightly cracked. He slowly moved to the stairs. He looked up, and Rosalind stood at the top step waiting.

Christopher gazed back at her, and he knew she had heard. Placing a hand on his forehead, he continued to walk towards her.

“No fever,” Christopher whispered to her and waved a hand for her to precede him down the stairs.

Rosalind eyed him for a few short moments then started down the steps. Rosalind had pulled the pie from the cooker and gestured for them to start the meal. Christopher happily took his reprieve from the inevitable conversation and enjoyed each mouthful.

After they washed up, Christopher led Rosalind to the front room and to the couch.  
“I am sorry,” Christopher started, “Mr Randall has lent me to London, and I really cannot tell you exactly what I will be doing.”

“How long and how dangerous is all I want to know,” Rosalind determinedly asked. Her eyes and face gave nothing away. She had had a similar look during the war. He could see honesty would be the best way forward or as much truth that he could reveal.

“Well… for now three weeks. They are only allowed to lend me for three weeks at a time. I insisted on that,” he saw her eyes narrow at his answer knowing she understood that it was not a one-time duty. Christopher tilted his head and gazed at the fireplace, “Hmmm as for the risk to life and limb… wwwell if I am very clever and you know I am vvvery clever, not... mmuch risk.”

Foyle turned his eyes back to her and gave her a half smile. He rarely boasted of his intellect. He was typically reserved and solidly quiet regarding any professional achievements. Foyle continued in jest, “I didn't make detective or DS for my good looks.”

Rosalind smiled back and leaned in to wrap her arms around his shoulders, “Wwwell, Mr Foyle do not think I don't know when I have been fed a fish story. But I want you back in three weeks in good working order, or else.”

Rosalind ran her right hand along his head to pull him into a kiss that made his head spin. He effortlessly eased her back against the couch and smoothed his hands the length of her arms, “It is to be no more than three weeks and good working order, is it?”

“Yes, at the very least,” Rosalind smiled against his chin.

Foyle pulled away and gave her an all too familiar look, “Wwwell, shouldn’t you be very sure of what “good working” order is before I leave?”

Rosalind’s eyes engaged his seriously, “Just to be very certain?”

Foyle’s eyes twinkled back at her and pulled them both to their feet, “Come along, Mrs Foyle.”

The unmarked police vehicle passing him dragged his thoughts to the present. Christopher’s gaze had wandered to the oak on the side of the road as he thought of that evening. His wife had amazed him, and he barely made it out of their bed in time to catch his early train. He was glad to have his thoughts interrupted as Foyle did not want to recall when next he saw his wife, which had been two and a half weeks later.

Foyle took a deep breath. He had his signal that all was in place and Milner was on hand. Christopher casually looked behind him and crossed the street to finally meet the offensive Mr Tremayne.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the last chapter of this Chronicle. It was longer than I expected to it be and the characters took over (hope it reads ok). I messed with it after the beta read - so all mistakes, as always, are my own.
> 
> Bleak Mid-Winter is one of my favourite episodes and Foyle going undercover intrigued me, so I have run with it. I have already stepped on Cannon with all the characters' ages (see my profile for more details on that), but since contradictory statements are streaming through Cannon about almost everyone's age...... NOT to mention that Sam was supposed to be older... - I don't feel too bad about it... :) 
> 
> Hopefully, I'll be posting a couple of stories I have already written this weekend. Please take note of the content of future stories, they will not be G... mostly mature/explicit and a few teen mixed in here and there.  
> \--------------------------------------

After rounding up Mr Tremayne and his illegal operations, such as they were, Foyle considered Mr Black’s career involvement in the week’s contribution as minor when compared to past assignments. Of course, Christopher went through the strangest few days of his career this week. Between two murders, a deranged would-be thief as well as a murderer, and being short with his entire staff, including Sam, he was ready for a strong beverage. Fortunately, Sam was driving him home to do just that. She stopped the vehicle outside Steep Street.

“Sam,” Foyle looked at her and closed one eye asking, “I could use a drink. How about you? Will you come in and join me?”

“Would love to, Sir,” Sam smiled. Apparently, she held no grudge against his earlier dressing down this week about “discussing” the case. Admittedly, he was under a great deal of pressure and to suspect that evidence had been tampered with in his ranks still flooded him with a great deal of anger.

So, now he took Sam’s coat and hung it next to his jacket, and motioned for her to precede him into the front room. He liberally filled two glasses with Jack Daniels. Handing Sam’s hers, Foyle went to sit in his armchair.

“Cheers,” Foyle lifted the glass to Sam, his eyes twinkled at her.

“Cheers, Sir,” Sam smiled back and took a small sip, “It’s has been quite a week.”

“Hmmm….,” Foyle agreed. Shifting in his seat, he took another drink from his tumbler. 

The front room was quiet. He watched as Sam took another sip from her glass, then ran it back and forth between her palms. She gazed into the glass, and he could see she was thinking. He was not sure what question she would ask. After spending many hours of her driving him, he was positive one was formulating.

“Mr Foyle,….” Sam started her question after a very long two minutes. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but Foyle wondered if she would even ask her question. Christopher tilted his head with an inquiring look, “I wanted to know something.”

“What’s that, Sam?” Foyle returned nonchalantly.

“You never, for even a second, doubted Sergeant Milner, did you?” Sam gazed at him expectingly.

“No, not at any time,” Foyle assured her and gave her a weak smile, “And nor did you.”

“Yes, well, I don’t understand,” Sam was about to ramble, and he bit his lipped as he prepared himself, “I came to pick you up that day when Edith was here. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the window was ajar, and I overheard part of your conversation. I’m sorry, Sir.”  
Foyle’s eyes closed slightly to take in Samantha’s words. He ran through Edith’s conversation in his mind. It had been very awkward for him.

“No…. no, need to apologise, Sam,” Christopher assured her with the wave of a hand, “I could not discuss the case with anyone. With Edith, with Paul or with you.”

Sam nodded in agreement realising the difficulty of Foyle’s position. They sat there for several minutes enjoying the whiskey.

“Sooo, Sam, what is it you wanted to know?” Foyle stood and placed his drink on the mantle.

“Well, sir, it’s just that my father… and my mother would …never… have had thought that the other could murder another person. Of course, my father is an ecclesiastic, but still, how could she believe Paul could…?” Sam’s voice faded.  
Sam's skin flushed with embarrassment, and she shook her head. Christopher could see Sam had more to say than reflecting on her parent's relationship, but he frankly didn't have an inkling of what she was about.  
'Out with it, Sam.' Her employer chided her gently.  
'Well, WE police,” Sam said with a nervous, uncomfortable giggle with her reference to 'we police' that included herself. 'See and do distasteful things, though we truly have a …hmm… ethical line. I mean, would Mrs Foyle ever have thought that of you?... it doesn’t seem right…'  
Sam's voice quickly faded, not entirely being able to breach her employer's privacy and relationship with his late wife.  
Foyle regarded her with eyes narrowing. He bit his inner cheek and debated how to address her question.  
Finally, Foyle quietly responded unequivocally, “No, she would not have.”  
Several minutes passed as they avoided each other's eyes. Then, he crossed over to sit at the other end of the sofa. He leaned forward and placed his arms on his knees.  
“Sam, I know Sargent Milner. It would be impossible for him to murder anyone. To commit that type of crime. Then, I had more and more evidence to prove what I knew.”

Sam took another sip of her drink and Christopher continued, “Sam, you did not for one second think Paul could have done this. But you had no evidence to support your belief. Ttthat is faith.”

Foyle smiled at her, and her eyes twinkled as she looked away. 

“Paul is going to spend Christmas with Edith’s family,” Sam looked back to her glass, “I don’t think I could do that.”

“Do what?” Foyle usually followed Sam’s train of thought, and she again looked a bit uncomfortable just at that moment.

“I assume they will marry and…. and well, I would not want the man I am to marry to have any doubt in me… whatsoever,” Sam chose her words slowly to make her meaning plain, “I suppose everyone is different. I must have too high of standards…. what with all the clergy in my family.”

Sam looked back at Foyle catching his eye, grinned and shrugged. She took another sip of her whiskey. Christopher leaned back and looked at her guardedly.

“Sam, keep your too high standards,” Foyle gave her a rare and small sideways grin.

Sam emptyed her glass and stood up, “Thank you, Sir, but I should get the Wolsey back.”

“Of course,” Foyle led her to the door, helped her on with her coat and watched as she pulled into the street. It was a fine night for mid-December, and Christopher looked forward to finally getting a good night’s sleep.”

\------------------

 

Foyle sat in the kitchen nearly six weeks later recalling their conversation that night. It made him smile. It was Saturday. Sam would not be coming today. It was also the eleventh anniversary of Rosalind’s death. He knew Andrew would not have the authorisation for leave to visit her grave. Sam had driven him the last two years to Rosalind’s grave. Strangely enough, it had been a relief that first year to mention her to someone other than Andrew. It very much was how Sam just asked. Most people didn't know what to say, or they pried. Sam did not. 

Foyle admitted to himself that his faith in Sam over the last few years was justified. She had not ever mentioned his wife. Only when Sam drove him that first morning to Rosalind’s grave did Sam ask a personal question. Then she asked about Rosalind during the discussion around Jane Milner case. In two years, Sam had never intruded on his private memories, more importantly, nor had she ever asked anyone else. It would have been easy enough for her to ask any number of people, including Andrew. She had never asked Andrew about what his mother was like or how she died, which had been a revelation. Very odd. Knowing what Foyle knew of Samantha Stewart, that information unnerved him. Though as he thought about it, Sam was quite sensitive to others feelings despite her natural curiosity.

He remembered her taking him the previous year very clearly. Sam and Andrew were exchanging letters then. He was not sure if they had an understanding or if they were officially walking out, but Foyle had been just a little bit nervous for Sam in regards to Andrew. He was not sure how his son had become so unlike him. Perhaps it was just the war as Sam said.

Foyle had not been happy when he had found out about the Dear Jane letter. In this one case, he would have been contented to have been entirely left in the dark. Fortunately, Sam had been gracious, and they had remained fast friends. 

Foyle was just finishing his unusually early breakfast, and the knock on the door shook him from his thoughts. Placing his napkin on the kitchen table, Christopher went to answer the door.

‘Good, Christopher, I am glad you are up,’ Charles Howard smiled at his brother-in-law and took Foyle’s hand in greeting.

‘Why, hello Charles,’ Christopher returned and gestured for the man to step inside, ‘Just finishing breakfast. Would you care to join me?’

‘No, no Christopher,’ the Commander followed Foyle into the small kitchen and took a seat, ‘No Andrew this weekend?’

‘No, haven't even had a letter in a month. He is a tterrible correspondent,’ Christopher half-joked. As Charles uncomfortably crossed his legs, Christopher waited for his brother-in-law to say something.

Foyle, a very patient man, eyed him across the table and bit his inner cheek.

‘Mary sends her regards and insists you come to visit soon,’ Charles ran a smooth hand over his knee and gazed blandly back at Foyle.

‘Out with it, Charles,’ Foyle nodded to him.

‘Well, I couldn't just drive by,’ the Commander replied looking away, then he closed his eyes, ‘I was caught overnight in Rye, and well….., I have already visited her grave.’

Foyle’s gaze fell away, and he replied slowly, ‘Ahh, I see.’

‘This war… ridiculous that with all this death, that I still feel… the way I do. Rosalind's being gone for eleven years now,” Commander Howard frustratedly tapped his hand along the table, ‘Her death was too sudden…. Lord, Christopher, I am still angry.”

‘Yyess, quite senseless. Influenza and the measles together,” Foyle replied slowly and tilted his head slightly at Charles.

The two men exchanged looks, and Charles finally regarded the wooden table, ‘I’m sorry, Christopher. You have had a much harder time. What with raising Andrew all alone.”

Charles stared down and tipped his chair, rocking slightly, ‘She’d be proud of him, and you did a fine job.’

‘We have missed her though,” Christopher took a deep breath, ‘I know you do, as well.’

‘Yes, very much,’ Charles nodded, ‘She was everyone’s favourite. We adored and spoiled her. She was incredibly optimistic.”

Foyle smiled slightly at the shared memory of her. He nodded. Charles had known her as a sister. As a wife, she had been gorgeous and more giving than he had ever suspected before he had married her. Andrew missed his mother's unwavering devotion.

‘You know, Christopher, with all her optimism, Rosalind would not liked this conversation.’ Charles regarded Foyle quite seriously, ‘It’s been eleven years. Today, I will do something optimistic. Mary has decided to do early spring cleaning for the war effort, and I will see what I can contribute.”

Christopher smiled as Charles stood and took his hat off the counter.

‘And I am positive, Rosalind would not have wanted you so unhappy, Christopher,’ Charles Howard watched Foyle with questioning eyes. If he had been anyone else saying this, Christopher would have in no uncertain terms asked them to leave. But Charles was his oldest friend and her brother.

Foyle nodded and stated quietly, ‘But because of who she was to me, I find no one can measure up to that optimism, Charles.’

‘You should not be so unhappy though,’ the Commander insisted. There was a very long pause, Charles finally looked him in the eye, ‘You know what she told me once? It was several years after your wedding. She said she was happy every day because you were happy.’

The two men stared each other. Foyle could see Charles was waiting. 

‘I wwas happy with her,’ Christopher agreed, as his friend leaned against the counter hat in hand, waiting for him to continue. Reluctantly, Christopher continued, ‘She is gone, and I am alone. I have accepted that. Charles, believe me, I am not very unhappy… and well.. of course, we both know happiness is a rare commodity.’

The commander looked at his friend. Foyle could see, he understood his meaning well. Foyle had not remarried by choice. Charles nodded seeing that his friend was reconciled to his wife’s death more than he, himself, was. 

Charles closed his eyes before turning to move through the hallway, where her paintings hung. He eased the door open and made to step outside.

‘Thank you, Christopher,” Charles’ eyes conveyed his genuine attachment, and he offered his hand, ‘Sorry to have troubled you.’

‘No, of course not,’ Foyle took his hand in both of his and continued earnestly, ‘Never any trouble. Never, Charles.”

Charles dipped his head and stepped down the stairs to his waiting car. Foyle noted that he was driving himself. The Commander would have brought his driver if he had been in Rye overnight. Foyle waved him off with the cast-iron certainty that the Howard family was too kind and too few.

Foyle went indoors to reheat the kettle, and on second thought he went into the den. Finding a box, he ascended the stairs to his bedroom. Turning on the light to the closet, Foyle slipped a large box from the back and started to pull out his old clothing. He worked at a steady pace, clearing any item that could be donated. Finally, Christopher reached up to the chest that held the Mr Black files. He took Rosalind’s blue dress out and added it to the pile in the large box. 

Satisfied that he had enough to donate before he went to visit her grave, Christopher washed and changed. Descending the stairs once more, he put on his coat and hat, collected the box and stepped out to lock his door. 

Turning to leave, Foyle was greeted with the sight of Sam Stewart standing midway up his steps.

“Sam,” Foyle said her name softly. He observed her inquiringly.

“I thought you might want a lift…?” Sam smiled back at him daring him to question her presence.

Foyle paused, shifted the weight of the box, and nodded his chin forward, “Rrright.” 

They walked to the Wolsey together, and she opened the boot for him.

“Donations,” Foyle offered.

“Church, first though?” Sam asked over the hood, as they both opened the doors to the vehicle.

Sam started the Wolsey, then glanced over at Christopher. Foyle nodded and slowly blinked as he shifted his back against the door.

“Church, donations,” then collectedly, Mr Foyle, with a small smile, waved his hat and stated, “l’lll take you to lunch.”


End file.
